


The Greatest Virtue (the greatest fault)

by fluffernutter8



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Newspaper Reporters, F/M, Gen, Steggy Positivity Week 2017, mentions a bunch of other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 07:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11031561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffernutter8/pseuds/fluffernutter8
Summary: News never rests. Even when it gets in the way of relationships.





	The Greatest Virtue (the greatest fault)

Their desks press against each other. Before Steve came, Yauch had sat across from her, and before him, Hodge. She’d been just about to complain about who was doing the hiring, picking up weak reporters and bullying ones, none of whom even bothered to stick around for very long. And then Steve had come in with a box in his arms and a messenger bag over one shoulder, and said, “I think they said this was mine.”

Of course, Peggy had told him dryly, “Your investigative skills are clearly excellent,” and subtly watched him unpack his things. She refused to raise her expectations simply because he was pretty.

He had just arrived in the city, two weeks after he’d been switched to the Washington bureau from the crime department back in New York, but he already seemed to know the others in the newsroom, Thompson and Rose and Sousa, from old beats and bylines. Peggy doesn’t talk to him particularly often, but she finds that he has a quietly sharp sense of humor, a good manner in interviews, and an admirable work ethic. He’s moved from a general internship, to the art desk, and then to crime before getting to DC; it’s a path that requires either talent and effort, or nepotism, and Steve Rogers, as far as she’s been able to ascertain, isn’t getting preferential treatment and wouldn’t want it.

“Hey,” he says one day, reaching to tap the edge of her desk. “You have an in with a guy in the mayor’s office, right?”

She looks up. “How do you know that?”

“Well, you came up through City, so you know how to cultivate them, and your articles always have good scoop from there. I always get the party line.” Something, a nervousness, crosses his face, as though noting things about her and her writing is off-limits, an awkward invasion of privacy.

“I have someone,” she says brusquely, covering. “What are you writing?”

“I got a tip that they’re doing something big to try and bring back the DC statehood movement. I’m trying to float a story.”

“Well, you can use my source, but I’m coming with you.” She stands, grabbing her coat off the chair.

He scrambles after her. “What?”

“Phillips complains every year that his vote doesn’t count for enough. If it’s going to be a series, I want in.”

You don’t let yourself get scooped, especially when you’re the newest on staff. She knows that he knows that. He follows her anyway.

She’s not exactly sentimental, but when she sees a copy of their first article, both of their names in the byline, she tucks it away in her desk.

* * *

“Hey. Hey!” Steve lifts his hands, trying to block her. “What the hell are you hitting me for?”

“I’m hitting you because you deserve it for absolutely missing the point!” Peggy says, half laughing. It’s a pain to reach him from where she’s reclining on the sofa, her feet up on the arm, but she manages it.

They’re the only two left in their part of the office on a dead Sunday night. Peggy’s picking over a story of Steve’s that he has to get submitted before deadline so the editors don’t storm the newsroom. She’d been there anyway, waiting up for a statement from the office of the Secretary of Agriculture, even though she knows the only thing it will say is, “Our department is investigating further, and working closely with the FDA and USDA to resolve the issue.”

“Okay, I’ll do a follow up. Now let me file my story.”

As he stands, and leaves the break room, still fending her off, she calls after him, “It’ll have to start, ‘My tremendous colleague Peggy Carter made me realize–’”

He tries to talk over her, still laughing. “‘I was browbeaten into this by someone I once considered a– Hey, your phone’s ringing.”

“Excellent.” She slides into her shoes and moves quickly to her desk. “Maybe I’ll actually get home at an hour that won’t have my neighbors spreading nefarious rumors about me.” Steve, distracted entering final changes, still smiles but looks skeptical; he’s heard about her neighbors. She answers her phone on a breath. “Peggy Carter.”

It becomes clear almost immediately that it isn’t some harassed Agriculture staffer. “Sir,” she says as soon as she can. “I believe that one of our military reporters might be better equipped to use this information. I’ll be happy to transfer you.” Sam Wilson is good, and he’s stateside again. She goes to look up his number.

“No,” says the man on the phone gruffly. “Yours wasn’t just the first name in the phone book. I’ve liked your stuff, Carter. Start writing.”

She finds that she has already set herself up to take notes. She starts writing.

The call lasts around twenty minutes. Steve, his article finished, is just watching her by the end, with some intensity, but also the barely disguised wonder she so often sees when he looks at her. When she hangs up, she flips back through what she’s taken down.

“I think I might have something,” she says, finally looking up at Steve. His face is professional again. She might not say ‘something big,’ but she doesn’t have to. “A few weeks ago, we ran a short story about casualties in Afghanistan, a group of soldiers killed in an apparent raid.”

“Yeah, I remember it. Mostly about how the war there has been almost forgotten because of everything else going on.”

“Yes. But that might have been just what the army was hoping for. Apparently the raid was a coverup for some kind of accident. He–” She tilts her head to indicate the phone. “Obviously he’ll have to be checked out, but if I can corroborate what he’s said, this will be...significant.”

Steve slides his chair over so he can look at her directly without his computer in the way. “What’s he say?”

“That the soldiers were killed by malfunctioning equipment, but nothing standard. Apparently, a one star general–” She checks her notes. “McGinnis, decided to field test some experimental weaponry without permission. It obviously wasn’t ready.” His brow and mouth are setting back into skepticism, but a more businesslike type now, a reporter’s skepticism. “I checked while I was listening.” She turns her computer to face him, showing a picture of a strict looking man in uniform. “General McGinnis was discharged several weeks after the apparent incident. He was career military. He should have had fifteen more years, and been aiming for more brass.”

Steve says, “Sure, but there’re plenty of reasons he could have left.”

And only because it’s Steve, looking for a good-faith discussion, doubtful because it’s his job, rather than because he doesn’t think that she’s good enough to have thought these things through she takes a breath and say, “Of course. But wouldn’t you like to find out?”

* * *

They bring in Wilson after all, use him for good military information and to help vet their source, a loud and idiosyncratic but seemingly trustworthy special forces corporal. There’s quite a bit of dirt on McGinnis, even if this particular allegation doesn’t turn out to be true.

“Not enough for its own piece, unfortunately,” Peggy remarks as they maneuver a busy street beside each other on their way to meet another of Sam’s contacts. “If we filled the paper with every minor military misdemeanor, we’d have no room to report on anything else.”

“Well,” says Steve, hands in his pockets, “we’ll just have to make this one count.” She pretends not to see the trusting, admiring way he looks at her; she pretends that it doesn’t light her up inside. He holds the door open for her and they enter the quiet coffee shop.

They’ve both seen Colonel Rhodes on television. Even as he sits in civilian clothing at the cafe table, he looks somehow solid and comforting, just the kind of person you would want delivering bad news.

“This isn’t the kind of meeting I usually have with the press,” he says once they’ve settled at the table.

“We’re much less likely to shout out questions at you here,” Peggy tells him.

Rhodes lifts his eyebrows in a shrug. “Guess I’m in luck.” He takes a drink. “You understand that I can’t have my name on any of this?”

“Deep background. ‘A highly placed military source’ at most, if you’ll agree to it,” Steve reassures him, leaning forward with his notebook prepared.

“Good.” He takes a breath. “I’ve always known that things in the service are far from perfect, and that my work has a lot to do with changing things from within. But usually there’s at least elements of a system to correct. If nothing else, we’re usually good for authority.” He shakes his head. “McGinnis is something else. As far as I can tell, they covered up the things he did early on, smaller stuff, and now they can’t come forward with something big like this. It’s a major problem.”

“That’s your take from a PR standpoint?”

“That’s my take from a human standpoint. But no, it wouldn’t look good either, especially now that they’ve put out a false story.”

“You have confirmation of the dead? Injury reports?” Peggy asked.

“There’s a lot of speculation that can be made from the closed caskets, and the speed of the investigation, and how damn fast they got McGinnis out of there. It’s all suspicious, but there’s no real proof. What I will say is that the weaponry was stolen from Stark Industries. Tony Stark–” He shakes his head ruefully. “He’ll talk to you. Until you wish he wouldn’t. All on the record.”

Steve looks up from his notes. “Stark recently split with the government, withdrew from his contracts. Is this why?”

At Rhodes’s nod, Peggy asks, “Everyone knows that Tony Stark isn’t exactly quiet, and he knows how to get publicity. Why didn’t he say anything?”

“Tony...He’s gotten a little cynical about these kinds of things. He pulled out his support and I know he’ll be willing to talk, but I think he didn’t think that too many people would care.”

The bell on the door jingles. A woman walks in, and they all pause, trying to look casual. Once she’s gone to the counter to order, Peggy says, “We can certainly make them care, but we’re going to need more precise details about the incident itself.”

“This is what I can give you. A full listing of the men under McGinnis’s command.” It’s clear for the first time that Rhodes has served as a source before. He doesn’t try to slide it under the table, or look both ways and then try a handoff. He just puts it on the table, facing toward them. Peggy and Steve both lean forward to read it.

He doesn’t say anything, but Peggy can feel the second Steve’s body goes stiff. He remains professional but stays nearly silent for the rest of the meeting.

“What’s the matter?” she asks immediately after exiting the coffee shop into a misty drizzle. When he doesn’t answer, she continues. “Rhodes seems trustworthy. We’re going to have to take this to Phillips soon, so if you have some reservation–”

“I know someone on the list.”

Just saying the words seems to take something out of him, choking and painful. Peggy stops and pulls Steve into the doorway of a closed laundromat. She has the feeling that this is not a conversation suitable for a walk-and-talk. “Explain.”

“My best friend, he just came back from overseas. He doesn’t talk a lot about what happened, but I knew it was bad.” Steve swallows. “We all figured the discharge was because of his arm, but I don’t know anymore. Maybe it was because of McGinnis. Maybe he only got to come home as part of a coverup.”

“What about his arm?”

Steve looks at her steadily. “He doesn’t have it anymore.” Peggy tucks her fists into the pockets of her trench coat. She doesn’t look away. “I want McGinnis charged, I want to make sure it happens, but I can’t be involved anymore. He’s my best friend, Peggy. Ethically, it isn’t just something I can wave away in a parenthetical. Even if it was, I won’t make him talk about it. If this is true, a commanding officer lost him his arm and his friends. If I ask him to talk then he’ll do it. I’m supposed to help him get his life back, not make him put his picture next to the headline news about the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.”

“Every person we interview,” Peggy points out, “has friends and relatives. Many of them are discussing terrible incidents in their lives. You must have realized that.”

Steve turns away. “Of course I know that. But this is–” He breaks off, regroups. “The source gave the story to you anyway. I can’t do it anymore.” He steps out of the doorway. It has started to rain harder. He pulls his collar up. “I’m going to go back. Phillips wanted a draft on congressional staffing numbers by tonight.”

Still sheltered by the doorway, Peggy watches as he walks away.

* * *

“Shepherd’s pie, and I added a cup of chicken soup on the house because it’s still cats and dogs out there,” Angie says, setting the food on the table and taking out her pad. “Where’s Steve, anyway? Been a while since you were in here alone.”

“Steve?” Peggy absently stirs at her soup. “He’s working.”

“Uh huh,” Angie says, scrutinizing her for a moment, before calling over her shoulder into the kitchen, “Luce, I’m taking a break!” loudly enough that the one other customer in the place this late winces. Angie shrugs and sits in the booth across from Peggy. “So what’s the problem?”

Peggy smiles ruefully. “One of those things I can’t really talk about, I’m afraid.”

“You’re pretty smart, Peg. I think you can find a way.”

Peggy eats a few spoonfuls of soup. After a moment she says, “There was something we were working on, and it turns out that if we were to continue following on our current path, we would likely end up hurting Steve and people he cares about. But the piece that we were working on...it’s important. And I’m not sure how to do it justice without causing pain to Steve and his friend.”

Angie rests her chin in her hand. “Huh. I see why it’s a problem. But I think we both know that Steve’s one of the good ones. He knows how much your job means to you, and how good you are at it. And if he was working on this with you, he knows how important it is. Whatever you decide, I think he’ll forgive you.”

Peggy pictures Steve’s steady gaze ( _“He doesn’t have it anymore.”_ ), his head soaked by rain because he couldn’t bear to talk with her. “I’m not sure he will. Not completely.” The idea of losing it all, her ease with Steve, their natural interviews and automatic editing of each other’s work, their laughing late nights in the office, all the pieces of their friendship, all the possibility of _more_ , holds a cloudy sort of unbearability.

“Peg.” Angie lowers her voice a bit, covers Peggy hand with her own. “You know he’s crazy about you, don’t you?”

“Yes.” To her embarrassment, Peggy finds her voice wavering a bit. “But he’s the type of person who’s loyal enough to put that aside for a friend. I don’t think I would feel the same way about him if he wasn’t.”

Ignoring the signal of the customer at the counter, Angie slides over to put an arm around Peggy. Her uniform smells, not unpleasantly, of pancake batter and salad dressing. “Then either you have to decide if this story is more important to you than Steve, or you have to figure out a way to have both.”

“I can always come to you for advice,” Peggy says with a light, slightly watery laugh. She lets herself sit with Angie, listening to the rain and feeling the heat of her soup bowl against her palms, waiting for a plan to come. Then she gets to work.

* * *

Despite her umbrella and her raincoat, Peggy arrives back at the office unpleasantly damp. Steve’s the only one there; his desk looks somehow imbalanced and lonely although nothing’s changed about it.

He sits up as she comes over to him. She sees his smudgy eyes and his familiar late-night slouch.

“Peggy.” He sounds somehow exhausted and surprised and pleased all together.

“I’ve called Sousa, and Sam,” she says. “They’re going to be leads on the story. I’ll be consulting and covering the White House angle.”

Steve’s mouth works. “You gave it up?”

“I handed it over to responsible reporters who would do it justice,” she corrects, perching on the corner of his desk. “And I removed a conflict of interest.” She catches his eyes very deliberately. “I know that you don’t want anyone talking to your friend. But despite what you may want, he is a witness. I’m sorry he’s part of the story, but this is something that happened to him. However, it doesn’t need to be me questioning him about it. I– I value you, Steve. As a partner and a friend and…”

“And?” he prompts immediately.

She shakes her head. This is a dangerous conversation to have with Steve, her deskmate, her friend. But somehow, all she feels is a champagne of eagerness. “Your investigative skills clearly have not improved if you can’t figure it out,” she tells him primly.

“If you’re going to insult me,” he says, leaning toward her, “at least do it fairly.”

When he kisses her, she’s immeasurably glad that no one is around to see. They work in a newsroom, after all, and if it looks nearly as giddy as it feels, they would make the front page.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 2 of Steggy Positivity Week 2017. Late and similarly vaguely _meh_.
> 
> Title from a Henry Anatole Grunwald quote: "Journalism can never be silent: that is its greatest virtue and its greatest fault. It must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes of wonder, the claims of triumph and the signs of horror are still in the air."


End file.
